Secrets
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: Everybody has one.


**Author's Note**: Put some space between the third season episode _If You Could See What I See_, and the one which followed it, _Hardcastle for Mayor._ Mark needed a few weeks off to recover—a _vacation_. Well . . . not exactly.

(Note to poohblaze: I've gotten some requests for h/c, but never for anything quite as painful as _Pennoyer v. Neff_. Thanks for that one.)

**Secrets**

by L. M. Lewis

Almost dying changes things, McCormick had concluded, no matter how hard two people try to act as though it doesn't. He'd noticed it after the judge's brush with death—a gunshot wound to the chest almost a year earlier. The physical recovery had been complete, as far as Mark could tell, within a few months, and yet something had changed. For one thing, there was no more denying that the judge was . . . well, whatever he was, he wasn't just his parole officer.

Now he was three weeks out from his own near-death experience, and it was evident that Hardcastle was not much better than Mark, himself, at accepting good fortune and getting on with things. Never mind that the judge had honed gruffness to an art form; the sideward, worried glances and the unspoken air of solicitation were starting to annoy the hell out of McCormick.

His irritation must have become apparent, or maybe Hardcastle felt the awkwardness, too. For one thing, Tonto was still limping, and the Coyote was strictly off-limits until his wrist had finished healing, so all bad guy-related activities had been reduced to the theoretical stages of the operation—that, and reorganizing the file cabinets.

It might have been that Hardcastle had decided the changes would be less noticeable if the two of them were somewhere other than at Gull's Way, but it certainly hadn't come up in conversation. Mark had had no inkling about what was on the man's mind as the judge had done chauffeuring duties that morning—a follow-up visit to the orthopedist. Maybe it was a little surprising that Hardcastle accompanied him all the way to the examining room, and hung around while the doctor did his routine of inspecting the new films and the extremities themselves.

"Coming along nicely," the doc said—his name was Pelsey and Mark wasn't too fond of him because he seemed singularly determined to keep him out of the driver's seat of the Coyote for a full six weeks. He was just on the verge of pleading his case one more time when the judge jumped in instead.

"He's doing pretty good, huh?"

Mark half expected him to ask if a lawnmower might be substituted for the cane but, at the doctor's nod of agreement, Hardcastle went ahead.

"No reason why he couldn't take a little trip then?"

Pelsey cocked his head and frowned. "What kind of trip are we talking about?"

"Nothing too strenuous. I'd be driving," Hardcastle smiled blandly. "I was thinking of going up the coast—some fishing."

Mark tried not to grimace. He didn't think he was up to their usual camping routine but he sure as hell wasn't going to admit it. Fortunately, Pelsey was equally adamant.

"Fishing? I don't think—"

"Oh, not standing out in a river or anything like that," Hardcastle interrupted with a wave of his hand. "I'm talking about a nice little lodge—has a veranda and everything. He won't even get wet."

McCormick realized he was staring. He tried to break his gaze away from the man who still _looked_ like Hardcastle, but was obviously an alien imposter.

"A _veranda_?" Mark sputtered it out, despite every attempt at nonchalance. This was altogether too weird.

"Yeah," the judge said genially. "You know, like a porch only bigger. They've even got some rocking chairs."

"I hope you're not expecting me to gut the fish one-handed." Mark held up his still-splinted wrist.

"Nah," Hardcastle was smiling, "they've got a first-rate kitchen at this place. They'll clean and cook your catch just the way you want 'em."

Mark frowned at him suspiciously and after a moment said, "How come we've never gone there before?"

"Well," the judge drawled, "it's kind of a sissy way to fish, if you ask me, but—"

"You don't think I'm up to the real thing, huh?" Mark interrupted indignantly.

Hardcastle shrugged lightly. "Well, are you?"

The younger man's frown deepened. He finally sighed and said, "I suppose not."

The doc, having apparently been giving it some thought, said, "Sounds doable—as long as he remembers to keep the leg elevated—careful on the uneven surfaces." He gave McCormick a stern look. "And I put a lot of work into that wrist. Fall and screw it up now and you'll be looking at a bone graft."

Mark nodded back at him soberly. He thought maybe once they were outside he'd suggest a different plan. Hardcastle could head up to the old deluxe fishing hole and have his catch cooked anyway he liked, while he stayed home and elevated his leg. But somehow he already realized that argument wasn't going to fly. He knew what he would have said, a year earlier, if someone had suggested he take off for Las Vegas and leave Hardcastle at home, putting his feet up and taking it easy.

A veranda. Rocking chairs. Trout cooked eighteen different ways—and probably none of them fish-on-a-stick. He just have to suck it up and suffer bravely.

00000

It had seemed like a perfectly good idea. It wasn't like they had anything else on the front burner right now. But McCormick's look of startlement when he'd brought it up in the doctor's office was one more indicator of how off things had been since the accident.

_Accident. Hah. You mean attempted murder. _

He still felt a surge of anger every time he thought about it, and it was inevitable that some of that flashed back on himself, no matter how many times he'd tried to persuade himself that the criminal responsibility rested solely with Falcon and Price.

Things would be better, he'd decided, once the external signs of injury were gone, once they could get back to the routine. _If he ever wants to. Couldn't blame him if he didn't. _They'd had a conversation out on the beach a few nights earlier—after an evening that might have been their lowest ebb since the shooting. He thought they'd worked some stuff out—maybe they had—but afterwards things still seemed awkward. Every limping step and one-handed fumbling attempt as what _ought_ to be routine was a reminder of what had happened.

They'd get away from it, this unroutine routine. They'd take a vacation—leave the files and all of that behind. Maybe they'd even sit on that veranda and talk things through, settle it for once and for all. He thought he could cope with it better once he knew for certain which way it would be.

"Maybe Frank'd like to come." Mark's comment was quiet but it still took Hardcastle by surprise. It was the first thing he'd said since he'd gotten into the truck.

He looked sideward quickly. The younger man looked like he been off in a reverie of his own. There was the trace of a pensive frown still on his face.

"Frank?"

"Yeah, I mean, I'll be up on the veranda, getting some sun, taking it easy. You won't have anybody to actually go fishing with."

Hardcastle was looking straight ahead again. "Fish is really all the company you need when you go fishing," he said after a moment. "I mean, it's nice to have somebody to help ya eat 'em once you've caught 'em, but it's not like you need someone there while you're doing it."

"Just thought it might be nice," Mark said mildly. "And, anyway, he likes fishing more than I do."

Hardcastle opened his mouth to advance his argument further, then shut it, almost as abruptly. He realized McCormick could have his own reasons for wanting Frank along. A referee was not exactly it, but Mark might have seen that talk on the veranda looming, too, and if Frank was there it was far less likely to happen.

_He's having second thoughts._ Well, after all this time they were most likely third, or even fourth thoughts. _But he's not ready to tell you yet._ _Probably waiting for his parole to be up._ That would make sense. It wasn't all that many weeks away. They hadn't gotten around to talking about _that,_ either.

"Okay," he said, after what he hoped wasn't too obvious a hesitation, "I'll call him when we get home, see if he's free."

00000

Frank was agreeable, and once he'd said yes, Mark actually seemed a little more enthusiastic. Hardcastle made the rest of the necessary calls and they were on the road the next morning. It was Frank's car—being the most comfortable for three men, one of whom could use the back seat to put his leg up and catch a nap. It had been a leisurely drive up the coast—lots of scenery and an overnight stop in a small town an hour north of San Francisco.

Harper hadn't asked too many questions about their sudden plans—at least not over the phone. Now—with the turn-off approaching and McCormick's settled, sonorous breathing audible from behind them—he was giving the judge an occasional appraising glance.

"You've been talking about this place for years," he finally said, keeping it light and not too challenging, "what made you decide to finally break down and do your fishing from the red carpet?"

He only got a casual shrug in return. "It's not _that_ fancy," Hardcastle muttered. "Just kinda exclusive."

"And not that I'm ungrateful," the lieutenant continued on, "but how come I'm along? This stuff's a little rich for my blood."

This time the shrug had a bit of drift to it. Hardcastle's chin has jerked slightly in the direction of the man in the back seat. "His idea. Musta thought you looked like you needed a break."

Frank hoped he didn't appear too startled. He and McCormick got along well, but he wouldn't have thought the kid would be looking for extra company. He frowned, glanced into the backseat—the man in question was still asleep. Harper said, very quietly, "He say why?"

Hardcastle did a quick backseat inspection of his own, then shook his head. "Nah, not really. Not a big surprise, though. He likes you, yah know?"

Harper kept his smile to himself. He'd had an off-the-record lunch with the younger man only a few weeks back—not long before the debacle of this most recent case—but as far as Frank knew, Mark still hadn't leveled with Hardcastle on the subject of his future plans—his enrollment in law school. He supposed this outing might be the perfect place to make the announcement, and McCormick, from the strangest, most convoluted logic, thought he needed some moral support for that.

Well and good. And about time, too. He'd only been tempted to deliver the news himself about a hundred times himself in the past month. He almost done it, too, back when Mark had been unconscious in the hospital, with Milt sunk in anxious despair. The only thing that had stayed him had been his promise to the younger man—his word that he'd let him do the telling himself, in his own good time.

As if Hardcastle would be anything but delighted. Harper aborted a shake of the head but must not have completely stifled the sigh. He became aware that the man next to him was giving him a sharp stare.

"What?" Frank asked, confronting him with nearly-perfect innocence.

Milt broke off the look, turning slowly forward again. "Nuthin'," he muttered.

Harper noticed with relief that there were almost there—a rustic but neatly painted sign indicated the entrance, just ahead. "Here, don't miss it," Hardcastle said unnecessarily, and Frank made the final turn.

Through a break in the trees they could see the structure, a log cabin done to robber-baron scale, with properly proportioned old-growth Ponderosa pine in front of it. Cars were kept discreetly off to one side, Harper suspected, nothing to dispel the image of frontier elegance. He sneaked a quick glance at the judge, whose worried look had been lost in a pleased expression.

Harper heard him say, "Hey, kiddo, we're here," and the man in the backseat mumbled, stretched, and groaned slightly. Frank pulled up. There was a pleasant-looking woman already on the front porch steps. She was dressed in top-of-the-line western casual with nothing overstated. She looked at home in her surroundings.

"Mr. Hardcastle?" she smiled. It was slightly formal, but more like being greeted by the daughter of an old friend, rather than a proprietor. "We've been expecting you. I'm Della Watson." The 'we' became justified with the appearance of a woman from the shadow of the doorway, an older version with a definite family resemblance. "My mother, Etta."

"Ah, you're the one Jenkins told me about," Hardcastle smiled, with a nod of greeting in the direction of the older woman. "He said you're an absolute whiz and I wasn't supposed to do anything but hand the fish over and stand back."

Etta had gray hair and was a little thick around the waist, but her smile was twenty years younger and her laugh was almost musical. "Oh, that man, he's always after my recipes. A woman's got to have some secrets, you know, only way to keep the fellas coming back."

Harper was out, and Mark emerging, a little slower. The judge did the introductions. Frank had the trunk open.

"Harv'll take care of your bags," Della said. A lanky, denim-outfitted man had slipped in from somewhere off around the side of the building. "We've got you upstairs in the parlor suite," she added, casting a slightly concerned look at Mark, who'd stood up stiffly and now was leaning slightly against the car. "That'll be all right?"

"We'll manage," Hardcastle said, with one eyebrow cocked at the younger man, who broke off from staring at the surroundings with a bemused smile, long enough to give an agreeing nod back.

They were ushered into the lobby—all pine with the glow of old varnish—amber and bronze, with just enough dark leather furniture and hand-woven rugs to make it homey. At one end of the room was a fireplace, logs laid and a painting hung above—a river scene, the only piscine decorative element in the room.

Harper stood there in quiet appreciation. There wasn't one fussy thing about the place, though he knew it took a lot of effort—and even more money—to achieve just this effect. Even the registering had been done discreetly—Milt was apparently already done, and Harvey had their bags halfway up the stairs.

Frank gave the place one last contented look before following. He saw Milt lag back, almost at Mark's elbow. A small frown and a gesture from the younger man—barely a wave of the hand—made him step away slightly, without entirely abandoning his post. Mark took the stairs slowly but steadily, and Frank pointedly ignored the whole thing.

They were led toward the right in the upper hallway. The door opened onto a sitting room—more comfortable, overstuffed leather chairs and another, smaller fireplace. There were doors off to either side.

"We'll sort it out from here," Hardcastle said cheerfully.

The man deposited the luggage and said. "I'll park your car and put the rest of your gear in the tackle room."

Frank handed over tip and keys and the man departed. Mark was already opening doors and poking his head into the other rooms. He looked back over his shoulder with a grin. "So this is how the other half fishes, huh?"

Hardcastle was looking around in unalloyed delight. "The other one tenth of one percent. I think Teddy Roosevelt stayed here once. That's what Jenkins said."

"Did he catch anything?" Frank asked, stepping into the bedroom and over to the dormer window. He'd seen the glint of blue between the pines. "Whaddaya think, too sunny right now?"

Hardcastle had joined him and was squinting out toward the water. "Dunno, maybe some lunch first." He glanced over his shoulder at McCormick. "Got the two bedrooms—you probably ought take the other one; we'll be getting up at the crack of dawn."

Mark smiled. "Since when has waking me up at the crack of dawn been a problem for you, Hardcase?"

The man's smile could have passed for natural, and the words were nothing out of the ordinary, but there was something a fraction off in the tone, and it was the momentary hesitation before Milt's reply.

"We're on vacation."

Just that, and a little flat, too. Frank almost winced and he caught a quick flash of disappointment in Mark's eyes, maybe even a hint of anger. Not for the first time, Frank wondered if he'd been invited along as a referee. But how could you handle negotiations between people who weren't admitting there was any disagreement?

"Lunch sounds good," Frank said into the abrupt and stubborn silence.

00000

They'd moseyed down to the dining room—just four tables, but none occupied.

"Our other party is still down on the water . . . and this is the quiet season," Della explained, as she sat them at the table nearest the window, then launched herself into the menu. "We have some nice medallions of beef in a wine sauce—one of mom's specialties."

Mark was pleasantly surprised, and immediately agreeable to anything but fish. He figured he was in for a steady siege of that and needed to save his strength. Both Frank and the judge must've had the same feeling, though he doubted that either man would ever admit a limited tolerance for their own hard-won catch. Everyone nodded and smiled to Della's suggestions and even more so when the meal arrived.

Sheer appreciation blunted conversation for a while. Just as well, Mark thought, things had been getting a little tense upstairs. He hoped Frank realized what he'd backed into. It wasn't that he and the judge _fought_—far from it. He sometimes thought a good clean fight would be referable to living in a near constant state of irritation, with no outlet.

Della came back and accepted kudos on her mother's behalf. "We all wear a lot of hats here," she said, "especially during the off-season. Harv can show you the tackle-room and give you a tour of the best spots after you've had a chance to settle your food."

She started taking up the plates. Despite the linens on the table and the stemware glasses, her smile made this place nothing at all like Chez Maurice, and Mark felt an urge to help with the table clearing.

He hadn't had a chance to act on this impulse before she said, "There's a little sun on the south end of the veranda in the afternoon, and a nice view."

It had obviously been directed at him. He knew he looked a tad on the gaunt side and maybe a couple shades too pale, and his progress up a flight of stairs was not yet jaunty, but he didn't think he quite qualified as an _invalid_. He was inclined to blame all these asides and concerned looks on Hardcastle, but just as quickly suppressed that notion—it was hardly a leap in deductive reasoning to see he wasn't going to be out there hauling in the big ones.

"Thanks," he said, trying hard for gracious.

He had to give the woman points for perception. It might have been his tone, but she almost immediately seemed to pick up on his unvoiced sigh and added, brightly, "Maybe you'd all like to have a little sit down out there—I can bring you your coffee."

But Hardcastle was already on his feet. "None for me," he said briskly. Just point me toward that tackle room. Might wanna get a couple casts in—just to warm up. Been sitting all morning."

Mark smiled as he edged his own chair back and levered himself up. Sometimes it felt as though he'd switched places with the man, suddenly having aged thirty years overnight. But that made no sense either, because the judge wasn't any different than he'd ever been—it had only become more noticeable now that he couldn't match him in the heart rate department.

"You guys go on and scare some fish—I'll check out the veranda." He thought he'd kept his smile natural. Frank seemed to accept it. It helped to have a longstanding reputation for inveterate laziness. "No coffee for me, though."

He heading in the direction he was pointed, grimly aware that the limp was more pronounced when he first stared walking. It was only a short stroll through the otherwise deserted main room and then through the double doors—propped open to admit the pine-scented breeze. The back porch ran the length of the building and was too expansive to be called anything but a veranda. Despite his mood, the rustic hewn-pine rocking chairs were charmingly inviting and the down-sloping view—trees and lake and mountains rising behind them—was undeniably beautiful.

He ensconced himself in a rocker—no one to impress out here with his intestinal fortitude—and propped his game leg up carefully on the middle railing. Rocking wasn't really an option in that position, but doing it would have made him feel even more geriatric.

It wasn't long before he heard the others again, some murmurs of apology from Della, and Hardcastle and Frank making assurances. Mark leaned forward and craned over his shoulder.

"I don't know where he could've gotten off to," she said as the three of them stepped out onto the veranda. The men were in full fishing regalia with looks of expectation.

"Don't worry about that," the judge said. "We don't need our hands held. We'll just give the place a look around, get the lay of the water." He turned toward McCormick. There was hesitation again, almost imperceptible. "You'll be okay up here?"

"It's a porch, Judge." He smiled. There was only the slightest hint of acerbity to his tone. "Rocking chairs. I'll try and stay out of trouble."

He got a hmph in exchange and then, "I wasn't figuring even _you _for trouble up here. Just thought you might be bored, that's all."

Mark smiled; it was more genuine this time—and more reassuring. "Don't worry," he looked around slowly, consideringly. "I think I'm developing a whole new appreciation for boring."

He was staring out at the glint on the water, and felt the momentary catch for the umpteenth time—that he was grateful to be alive. It alternated irregularly with his far more common annoyance at his temporary limitations.

He might even have been still smiling slightly when he realized the conversation had paused. He hauled his eyes back to Hardcastle. The man was frowning down at him—or maybe just to the right of him—a tense look. Impatience, maybe.

Mark fumbled nervously for something to offset what he'd let slip out and finally settled for an all-purpose, "Don't fall in. The water's probably plenty cold this time of year—" He caught himself just before he would have added, 'and I won't be there to pull you out.'

He knew his smile had definitely gone rigid. He sat there, frozen like that, while the still-pensive older man nodded once and turned away. Harper spared him a quick glance and a nervous nod of his own as they walked off toward the lake.

Mark felt his breath go out of him. It was an audible sigh. Della, standing not even four feet away, must've heard it. She'd been almost visibly wringing her hands but now looked at him with a concerned expression.

"No coffee?" she said. "Maybe some hot cocoa then?" Scrutiny, that's what it was, he suddenly decided. People scrutinized him, trying to fit it all together.

"No cocoa," he said firmly. "No chicken broth. No blanket." He looked around; the breeze was still coming in, tossing the pine boughs in quick bursts. "Well, maybe the blanket," he admitted, "if it's not too much trouble."

She turned on her heel and was gone only a moment before she returned with a woven cotton throw that was an upscale version of a saddle blanket.

"Lots of people ask for them when they sit out here." She seemed to realize the reassurance was welcome. She handed the blanket down, then almost immediately pulled another rocker over, slightly at right angles to his, and sat down, perched only on its armrest. "I _am_ sorry about the upstairs rooms."

"It's not a problem, _really_. It's been a few weeks."

He was aware that she was still there, almost hovering, though she was still seated, obviously puzzling through the situation—probably thought it was a car accident. For some reason that assumption always bothered him. He'd thought about it and concluded there was a certain amount of vanity involved in that. It wasn't that he hadn't had his share of car crashes; he just hated getting credited for one automatically.

"I fell off a cliff," he said abruptly. Then just as abruptly he frowned. "Well, actually, thrown off . . . shot and thrown off." He wasn't quite sure where it had come from. He hadn't felt the need to explain things to anyone up till now.

He realized he hadn't done much to reduce the puzzlement on the woman's face. If anything, it had intensified.

"It's a long story," he sighed. "Maybe some hot cocoa _would_ be nice."

00000

It had been a silent stroll down to the shoreline. Frank thought even the missing Harvey, laconic as he'd seemed, might've been handy as a conversation starter. He'd given up after his first couple attempts to prod Milt into more than single word responses. Nice scenery, yes. A little sunny for fishing, but it never hurt to try—yes again.

So it came as a brief surprise when they'd finally gotten down to the water's edge and Hardcastle, momentarily occupied with setting up his rod and tackle, had said, out of the blue, "Do you think he's happy?"

Harper had never really thought happiness had figured into it for Milt, not in any conscious sort of way. Certainly not as a topic of conversation. He cocked his head, looking up from his own tying-on job, and studied the other man.

"Yeah," he finally replied. It wasn't as if he'd had to ask who the subject of the question was. "I think he is—pretty much. You think he'd've hung around all this time if he wasn't?"

"He had to hang around—his parole."

"Nonsense," Frank said, almost without thinking. "He's a smart guy. He could've found a way out of that deal."

"Yeah," Hardcastle nodded, "but I mean he _had_ to. He'd made the deal. I mean, he'd _agreed_ to it—"

Frank squinted. He cast a quick glance over his shoulder back in the direction of the lodge. "You mean like . . . a matter of honor?"

The older man shrugged. "Yeah, something like that."

"Two-three years," Frank scratched his nose, "that's a lot of honor."

"Okay, habit then. Maybe some of that."

This time Harper shrugged. "Maybe. We all do that, but mostly 'cause it's easy—it's comfortable. So he must be at least that. And, heck, nobody's happy _all_ the time."

"I s'pose not," Hardcastle said. "Habits, they're hard to break, though, even when you want to."

00000

Fishing usually took his mind off things, everything but fishing. This time focus was hard to come by. He kept drifting back to that one remark—the part about having a whole new appreciation for boring.

Hardcastle figured it was the stuff like that, the casual, unstudied remarks that popped out on the spur of the moment, that were the real clues to what a person thought. Those off-hand comments were far more valuable than speeches.

He heard a grunt of pleasant surprise. Frank had moved down-shore a ways to give them both room. He'd been steadily working the surface and had obviously had something rise to him. This was dinner and Frank was taking it seriously—no chortles of delight and the minimum amount of playing the line to get fish to shore.

The judge was there with the net as soon as Harper had reeled it in, and they had it landed and dispatched with the ruthless efficiency of men who'd worked up an appetite. Frank slipped it onto a bed of damp grass in his creel, where it barely fit with the tail curled round and the head end edging up. He gave it one last admiring look before he latched the top.

Then he looked up at the reddening sun and said, "Think one is enough?"

"That one sure is," Hardcastle replied, heading back to pick up his tackle box. "Whaddaya think?" he said over his shoulder. "Something fancy with a sauce on it or just ask her to grill it straight up?"

I think we leave it up to her, though I'd vote for whatever takes the least time," Frank grinned. "All this fresh air makes a guy hungry."

The judge was grinning back, his worries momentarily forgotten. But Frank must've gone back to thinking about them, now that the important matter of dinner was settled, because as soon as they'd started back up the slope to the lodge, he said, "You didn't think you could go on doing it forever, did ya?"

Hardcastle froze, but then unstuck himself quickly, looking down, hoping his expression was less readable that way. He figured he'd mastered his voice—he'd thought the words through often enough, though he hadn't imagined he'd be trying them out on Frank, first.

"'Course not," he said with a much practiced, finely-balanced mixture of heartiness and nonchalance. And then something less-studied of his own slipped out, almost wistful. "We sure had a good run, though."

He had paused in his step this time and Frank, walking alongside him, was a short ways ahead before he stopped. He looked back, as if he wanted to say something—maybe some general-purpose words of encouragement and comfort—but he probably preferred not to get his head bit off before he'd had a chance to enjoy his dinner. Whatever it was, the urge seemed to pass in a moment and was replaced by a slightly-knowing smile.

"You'll get used to it," Frank said, with just a hint of cheerfulness. He patted his creel. "You'll do a lot more fishing."

He turned again and was off, not waiting for what would have been a grumbling reply. Hardcastle merely sighed and trudged after him.

The sky had gone to scarlet, with hints of purple and dark blue behind them. In under the pines it was full dark. They could see the lights of the lodge, warm glows from the downstairs windows. There were lights on the porch as well, but no one sitting there.

The judge felt a twinge of guilty relief, though avoiding McCormick was hardly the solution. He veered off to the right.

"The kitchen's over on this side."

Frank, one foot already on the porch steps, nodded and turned to follow him. There was more light through a half-open door on the north side of the building, voices, too, one of them very familiar, followed by some quick, light laughter in the high alto range.

The judge wasn't sure if he hadn't half expected it when he ducked his head into the kitchen and spotted McCormick, settled in at the table, a mug of something at his elbow and his foot propped on the chair kitty-corner from his own. Frank's creel was deposited on the sideboard and its contents scooped out and exclaimed over.

Mark craned over at it without getting up and announced, "Too big for a stick." Etta's immediate peel of laughter indicated that some regaling had been going on.

"Oh, we can do better than that," she said. "Go get yourselves sorted out. I'll take care of this end."

Mark stayed seated, obviously not included in the general shooing, already a part of the establishment after—Hardcastle glanced down at his watch—not quite four hours. It was like that with McCormick. He could carve himself a niche almost anywhere; there was no reason to think his adaptation to Gulls Way had been in some way special.

They headed out through the dining room, where Della was putting some finishing touches on the table setting.

"Success?" she asked.

Hardcastle hooked his thumb over his shoulder. "Frank reeled in a big one."

Della gave a smile of congratulation. Then, just as quickly, her expression went more apologetic. "I'm sorry about Harvey wandering off. He does that once in a while. A bit of a free spirit, and he kind of came with the place. But he really does know all the best fishing spots."

"It's all right," Frank said. "Some of us do okay on our own," he added, with a grin and a nudge in Hardcastle's direction.

"Wait'll tomorrow," the judge growled cheerfully. Then he glanced around the otherwise empty dining room. "Just us?" he asked.

Della nodded. "The other folks were leaving today. You've got the place to yourselves until Saturday." Then she dropped her voice slightly. "I can move you down to the main floor. The view isn't as nice but . . ." She cast a quick glance toward the kitchen

"Nah." Hardcastle kept his voice down, too. "He gets a little touchy about stuff like that." He shook his head. "Thanks for offering, though."

There was another round of laughter from the kitchen, this time in two-part harmony.

"Mom'll be giving him her recipes next," Della said with a smile and then, after a thoughtful pause, "Did you really spend a month up in Oregon living off the land?"

The judge winced. "Yeah, pretty much. I shoulda figured he already told ya the 'fish on a stick' story, huh?"

She nodded, still smiling. "No wonder you didn't much need Harvey to show you where to put a line in."

00000

It was trout fillets poached to perfection on a bed of saffron rice, with a sauce that might have included just a hint of dill, but whose other ingredients could only be guessed at—even McCormick wasn't telling. Dessert was pears baked in a cinnamon glaze and topped with ice cream.

Mark had apparently heard as many stories as he'd told. "Not just Teddy Roosevelt—Wyatt Earp stayed here. So did Clarence Darrow one time—same room as I'm in." He sat back a little, smiling contentedly. "Then the place fell on hard times for a while. Lots of upkeep, not big enough to be practical. Etta's husband had worked here as a kid, always wanted to come back. He finally put together enough money for a down payment—saved it from being torn down."

"That must've been back in the sixties," Hardcastle interjected. "Jenkins said the place reopened about twenty years ago."

"Yeah," Mark said, "and they've put it back on the map, but," he leaned forward a little, lowering his voice, "I don't think they're exactly stuffing their pockets. More like a vocation, especially with him gone. It's a lot of work for the two of them, even with Harvey."

Hardcastle frowned. "Harvey doesn't seem like the most reliable guy."

Mark shrugged. "He was by here right after you guys left. I saw Etta talking to him out back. I thought she was sending him down to show you around. So you figured out the fish'd be in the water all by yourselves, huh?" He grinned.

Frank eased out from the table, rocking his chair back a little. This was more like it, with the awkwardness that had hung over them earlier now dispersed.

"How 'bout we try out those chairs in the lobby?" he said. "I think I smell that fireplace going."

00000

They adjourned to the lobby, after a brief trip back to the kitchen to give Etta their compliments. There were promises of coffee, and the waft of fresh gingerbread to go with it—if anyone had any room left.

The fire was crackling—just enough of a blaze to take the edge off the mountain night air. They settled down, coffee and cookies arriving in short order.

Frank was half-smiling to himself. He had to hand it to Mark—the lead-in with the Clarence Darrow remark, the general air of bonhomie that was the result of an excellent meal in convivial surroundings—it was just about a perfect orchestration for an announcement.

He was a little pleased with himself, too, for having anticipated it with his own comment on the way back from the lake. Things always change—but sometimes change is for the better. He thought there'd be a lot of Hardcastle's friends who'd be happy to hear that the Lone Ranger and Tonto were going to be taking a more orthodox approach to law and order.

He munched his gingerbread and waited patiently. No rush, he supposed, though Milt might be a little miffed that he'd been kept in the dark this long. Frank frowned slightly, then erased that expression. That's what he was here for, referee and all around moral support. He gave McCormick a smile of encouragement.

Mark appeared otherwise preoccupied. He was pondering the fire with rapt attention. He seemed to suddenly sense he was being stared at and broke his gaze away from the flames, looking at Frank with a slightly puzzled expression.

Harper wasn't exactly sure when it became apparent—but it had. The moment had passed. There wasn't going to _be_ any announcement. There was some talk—idle, not very deep. It was mostly about fish, and mostly from Milt.

Mark had gone back to studying the fire, as though there was something to decipher there. He occasionally nodded and uh-huh'd to the older man's monologue. It was still perfectly convivial—but nothing was getting said. Frank shook his head slightly, momentarily distracted. He must've been, because he missed the slight rising of voices—McCormick's first, followed by a sharp retort from the older man.

"The doc didn't just say that stuff for the hell of it, ya know. Six weeks is six weeks."

"I'm just saying I could probably handle an automatic—it's not like I'd have to do that much with my right hand," Mark said testily.

It looked like it might stop there, with both men glaring stonily. Then Hardcastle muttered, it might have been meant only as an aside, but in the otherwise quiet room there was no mistaking the words. "You heard him. You mess it up now and it'll set you back months."

"That's if I _fall_ on it, dammit. How the hell is that gonna happen if I'm driving, for Pete's sake?" Then he turned to Frank. This wasn't exactly what Harper had had in mind for moral support. "It makes sense, doesn't it?" Mark asked. "If I want it to get stronger, I have to use it, right?" He held up the still-splinted wrist as exhibit 'A'.

Harper looked at him steadily for a moment, then shifted his gaze to Milt, then back again.

"I'm going to bed," he said sternly.

He got to his feet slowly, now patently ignoring both of them. He had one foot on the first tread of the stairs before he heard Milt clear his throat and say, "Probably a good idea—wanna be out there early tomorrow."

And right on the heels of that came Mark, in an equally apologetic tone. "Yeah, guess it has been a long day."

Harper took three more steps before he risked turning his head slightly to see how things were going down there. Milt was on his feet and standing within an arm's reach the younger man. He was obviously resisting the urge to offer McCormick some help. Mark was just as clearly trying to get up gracefully enough to make any such gesture look unnecessary.

The chair was deep, though, and it apparently had been a long day. An unspoken compromise of one hand under an elbow was reached. Frank kept his smile and his comments to himself.

00000

Mark heard them, puttering around right about dawn. He'd already been awake but he very pointedly didn't put in an appearance to see them off. He knew avoiding Hardcastle wasn't the solution, but sometimes it seemed easier that way. He got up as soon as the coast was clear.

He dressed slowly and fished his copy of Emanuel's Civil Procedure out of the bottom of his duffle bag, tucking it securely under his arm. He figured Hardcastle was good for a couple of hours down on the water at least, which might give him time to slog through a few more pages.

He found Della in the lobby, wearing an apron over her jeans and cleaning out the ashes from the fireplace. She nodded at his good morning and said, "There's a table set in the dining room. Mom can fix you right up with some eggs and pancakes."

Mark glanced over his shoulder, through the open French doors into the otherwise deserted room. "If she wouldn't mind having a little company in the kitchen—"

"You're a _guest_," Della said with a smile as she picked up the dust bucket. "You're supposed to be relaxing."

Mark grinned. "I think I'd be more relaxed in the kitchen."

The woman sighed, still half-smiling. "Oh, all right. You're a tough one. But we'll cut you some slack and give you kitchen privileges."

He followed her through the dining room and into the sanctum sanctorum, steadfastly resisting the urge to offer her assistance with the bucket—he thought he probably couldn't have managed it anyway. Della continued on out the back door with her burden, but her mother looked up from the bowl she was giving a final stir to.

"I already gotten the lecture on being a proper guest," he said, "but it seems silly to set a table for one person." He put his book down on the table and pulled out the same chair he'd occupied the afternoon before, sitting down gratefully.

Etta glanced over at the book and tsked. "You really do know how to have a good time."

"Don't tell anyone," he dropped his voice. "It's a secret vice."

Della had returned and was putting the empty bucket in its proper spot. Etta was on her feet by the stove, sprinkling a few drops of water on the griddle and watching them dance with satisfaction.

Mark sighed. "I don't suppose this could be like a dude ranch—you might have a few chores that need doing."

The older woman glanced over her shoulder at him, and Della's eyebrows had gone up a notch.

"Maybe something involving a car," Mark added wistfully. "I could run into town and pick up supplies."

"I think you're supposed to do that with a wagon when you're on a dude ranch," Della said after a moment's thought. "All we have is a station wagon."

Mark winced, but he'd sunk lower than that in the past.

"And," she continued on, "we don't need any supplies."

He sighed again and finally gave that a sad nod of acceptance. Della was frowning and it took a moment before he realized it wasn't at him, more _past_ him. Etta, back to both of them as she flipped the first of the flapjacks, almost startled as the younger woman let out a shout.

"_Harv_, I've been looking everywhere for you."

The man looked startled, too, though not until he was halfway through the door and appeared to catch sight of the out-of-place guest.

"Sorry," the older man mumbled. "Had some stuff to do." He was backing out, one foot on the porch steps behind him, as though he intended to make a quick retreat.

"Harvey Jones," Della said sternly, "I'm not done talking to you yet."

"Oh, let him go, Del," Etta said anxiously. "He won't be any use to anyone in that state."

Mark wondered for a moment exactly what state that was—the man seemed to be walking straight enough—no obvious evidence of alcohol. Harvey was already striding away, back to them. Della looked cross, her mother appeared worried,

"See," Mark chided gently, "looks like you could use a new handyman."

Both women looked toward him sharply, as though they'd temporarily forgotten he'd been there.

McCormick smiled, trying to set things back at ease. "This place must be a lot of work for you two," he added, a little more seriously.

"No," Etta replied. "Not much more than a big house—one that has guests most of the time."

"And we pick and choose with them," Della smiled brightly. "If someone doesn't understand what the place is all about, there won't be a vacancy next time."

Etta slid the stack of pancakes onto a plate and added a generous helping of scrambled eggs on the side. "Word of mouth," she added as she put the plate and silverware down in front of him. "That's what we count on. Judge Jenkins always sends us nice folks."

Della had gone back to frowning in pensively recollection. "Harv did the same thing the last time the Jenkins' were here."

"Oh," Etta shook her head, 'there's been lots of times. He gets notions, that's all. Give him a day or two and he'll be himself again."

Mark poured syrup and then tackled his pancakes. He wasn't so much clear whether his appetite had improved or that he had to show appreciation for Etta's efforts. The end result was the same, and the older woman was beaming at him by the time he had finished.

"More?" she asked, pointing to the batter bowl. "I've got enough for another short stack."

"Thanks, but no. It doesn't take that many pancakes to sit around all day." He gazed out the kitchen window. "Might take a little walk," he added speculatively.

"Oh, it's lovely. We've got a nice path that leads down to the crick," Etta said. "Della could rustle you up a walking stick."

For once Mark didn't frown. From Etta solicitation seemed natural, and she'd made it sound as if walking sticks were _de rigure_ for all excursions into the woods. Della had already nodded and slipped out of the room. She was back a few moments later with something that looked more functional than decorative.

"I won't need pitons or anything like that, will I?" Mark said, looking at the small metal spike in the business end of the stick.

"No, nothing like that. It's as even as a garden walk," Etta confessed with a smile. "As long as you don't go past the creek."

Mark nodded, pushing himself out of the chair and picking the stick up again. The sun was well risen now, shining in through the kitchen window with a promise of warmth. He glanced back down at the table.

"Ah, could I leave that here?" He pointed to the book. He hesitated. "Maybe in a cupboard or somewhere?"

Della scooped it up and laid it alongside some cookbooks and other papers on a shelf beneath one of the cabinets.

"It'll be right here for you." She shook her head. "And I hope you forget all about it until it's time to leave."

He essayed a jaunty salute with his splinted wrist. He wasn't sure if it was possible to saunter with a limp, but he tried for that, too, once he was down the back steps and out onto the slope. He looked over his shoulder; Della pointed the direction and he saw it, a break in the pines and a sandy path.

"Careful of the roots," Della hollered.

00000

The conversation that morning had been limited to the matters at hand and they'd eaten breakfast with determined haste. That's how it was with fishing. Hardcastle had long ago figured it out—a whole lot of getting ready followed by a long opportunity to ponder the meaning of it all.

They'd found a quiet inlet off the main lake, marshy on the far side but undercutting the bank where they were, the obvious consequences of a feeder stream. The pea gravel bottom gave good purchase. There were pools of shade from the overhanging foliage, along with the occasional fallen trunk. It had everything a trout would wish for and was all a fisherman could desire.

They'd spread out, casting in a slow, studied rhythm with enough hints and refusals to keep it interesting. But this time neither one of them had any real luck and after nearly two hours, with the sun beginning to eat into their pockets of shade, he saw Frank reel in his line and wade back to the shore. He brought in his own, staring disconsolately for a moment at a usually very productive stillwater nymph. He sighed and lumbered up out of the thigh-deep water.

"Might be medallions of beef again tonight." Frank squinted out at the now glittering lake.

"Kinda early to be throwing in the towel, isn't it?" Hardcastle glanced over his shoulder. "This _looked_ like a good spot."

"Maybe we need Harv."

"Nah, I think we'd get spoiled, having a guide hold our hand and all." the judge untied the nymph and opened his tackle box, poking around. "Maybe a wooly bugger."

"Maybe a sandwich." Harper opened the flap on the canvas bag Etta had provided that morning as they headed out. "Oh, got some of that gingerbread. Couple of beers, too. Better drink them while they're still cold."

Hardcastle looked up at the sun. "It isn't even noon yet."

"We're on vacation."

"It isn't even _ten_, probably."

"Ten-fifteen." Harper finally sighed. "Okay, s'pose we can put 'em in the water and keep 'em cold for a while. It's not too early for gingerbread, is it?"

"You'll need a beer after you eat that," the judge warned.

Frank grinned and passed a piece over.

"You're right," Hardcastle said as he flipped the lid of his tackle box closed and took it, "I dunno what's the hurry. I've got the rest of my life to fish."

Frank frowned. "Well, I didn't exactly put it _that _way."

"And McCormick'll probably be glad to see some beef on the table tonight."

"I think we oughta try a little further up." Frank shrugged. "He said he really liked that sauce she put on it last night."

Hardcastle took a bite of gingerbread and felt a tug of persuasion. He munched thoughtfully.

"Maybe we could try a caddis by that marsh." After all, the alternative was heading back up to the lodge. Might be that McCormick wasn't even out of bed yet.

00000

As garden paths went, this one was more challenging that his previous experience. Not that he was kidding himself about anything—it was him, not the path. He settled down for a trudge, grimly determined to make it to the creek. He found himself leaning a little more heavily on the walking stick than he'd anticipated and his pace was plodding, but it was even ground, and no one had yet said anything to him about not walking.

He forgotten to ask just how far the path went, not that the information would have helped much. Distances were utterly deceptive in the woods—he'd learned that much up in Oregon. He thought he might have come a mile or more—considerably further that the farthest distance he'd walked since that fateful night in the pool house.

He stopped, leaning against a tree to catch his breath. He thought he heard the sound of water—though still a long way off. Heartened, he started out again. He thought he'd caught his second wind, settling in to the rhythm of the thing, and not pushing himself quite so impatiently.

The woods was a little darker here, cooler, with mossy patches and some outcroppings of rocks, worn smooth. He could quite clearly make out the babbling of water up ahead but the actual boundary of the creek took him by surprise. Hardly enough flow to account for the sound, it was divided into easily crossable streamlets that ran between boulders, then joined up again, just a short ways further down. The path didn't end there; he could see it's continuation on the other side.

He poked at the first stepping stone with his stick. It was obviously solid and presented no particular challenge. In the crack of stick on rock he heard a slight echo of the orthopedist's warning—the consequences of another fall on his partly-healed wrist. He set the walking stick against the nearest tree, unfastened one button of his shirt and slipped his hand inside. He'd rather risk his face than listen to all the 'I told you so's' that would attend any further damage to that arm.

This, of course, raised the issue of why he was going across. Hadn't he been whining to himself, not even a mile back, about how tired he was getting? Why cross the creek at all?

"Because it's there," he muttered. And mostly, he figured, because it was something no one was here to tell him he couldn't do—though they most certainly would have if they'd been around.

Didn't matter what the reason was, though. He already had the stick to hand, and was out on the first boulder, studying his stepping places carefully and trying to compensate for the balance he'd lost by having his other hand immobilized. A few more steps and he'd done it, without even getting his feet wet, though the last stone had wobbled somewhat and given him a moment's concern.

He untucked his hand, looked back over his shoulder, and smiled to himself. It wouldn't quite make it up there in the lifetime achievement category, but it would do for today. But, he thought, looking ahead at the slight upward climb into the deeper woods, there was no reason for having crossed the dang creek if he had no intention of going further.

He didn't have to go far, he figured, maybe only to that first turn in the path, just to say he had. He hadn't actually planned on telling anyone, but maybe he'd slip it into the conversation tonight, especially if he got all the way back in one piece.

He headed uphill, feeling briefly ambitious. That got him to the turn, though he'd broken a sweat and was panting. Then he caught the scent of wood smoke on the air—just a whiff. The breeze didn't seem to be coming from the direction of the lodge, unless he'd gotten completely turned around. He supposed there might be other cabins out here, though part of Hardcastle's enchantment with the place had been its reputation for being off on its own, far from the madding crowd and all that.

Mark supposed sometimes the madding crowd might show up to do a little poaching, or whatever it was called when it involved fishing poles. He didn't know if it was idle curiosity, or a sense of obligation to Etta and her daughter, that made him want to find the source of the fire. It was already a little stronger, and he thought he could see some wisps of smoke between the trees off to the left up ahead.

There seemed to be a clearing, and he straightened up as he approached it, not wanting to look too obviously invalided. It wasn't all that far off the path, and had a small trail broken too it, as well. He caught a glimpse of a man—just one—through the branches, and then, as the man turned.

"Oh, it's _you_." Mark hoped he didn't sound too relieved. He hadn't been entirely sure he'd been up to taking on even slightly-madding fish poachers. He should have figured it was Harvey. "Just out for a walk. Didn't mean to disturb you." He paused, then added, "I think Della's still looking for you."

He didn't know what he'd been expecting from the unreliable Harvey. Some grumbling maybe, a little embarrassed shuffling perhaps. Harvey's low-pitched grunt would have been on the short list, but the quick flash of real fear that had briefly preceded it was not.

"She's not really mad," Mark said hastily. "Well, not much."

"You a cop, too?" the other man muttered, and this time a slightly drunken slur was audible.

Mark stepped around to the side, giving him a wide berth. He could now see a bottle sitting at his feet. It took a moment for the humor of the question to hit him, and then his laugh had a slightly sharp bite to it.

Harvey screwed up his face and said, "What's so damn funny?"

"Nothing, nothing," Mark said stepping back slightly, even though he now had the campfire and an extra ten feet between them. "And no, I'm not a cop."

"Etta said you got shot."

Mark frowned. He supposed, given that story, it had been a likely supposition. Then his frown deepened. Harvey had said 'too'.

"How'd you know Frank's a cop?"

Harvey squinted up to him, an entirely suspicious look. He sniffed once, then said. "Just know. I can tell stuff like that."

"Well," Mark said reasonably, "you're not as good as you think at it, if you pegged me for one."

He looked around at Harvey's apparent temporary digs. At the back end of the small clearing was a lean-to consisting of a piece of dark green canvas, strung at the upper corners between two trees. Under that were a ratty sleeping bag and a couple more empty bottles. He took a deep breath and then let it out slowly.

"So," he said, "I guess you really don't like cops. Or is that just an excuse when you want to come up here and tie one on?"

The squinty, suspicious look had gone completely over to a scowl. "A guy's gotta stay warm up here."

Mark shrugged. "Your choice, just that I think the ladies are a little worried about you. Leastwise Etta is."

This time he'd apparently struck a nerve. Harvey visibly stiffened. His movement knocked the bottle on its side. There was hardly enough left inside to spill, but he made no effort to right it. Mark watched for a moment and then, seeing no other more threatening gesture from Harvey, relaxed slightly.

He figured he'd done enough, though. He really couldn't drag the guy back down to the lodge—not even if Harvey had been willing. He could slip Della a word regarding his whereabouts. Maybe she could come up here and reason with him. Anyway, a night in the woods had apparently done him no harm; another probably wouldn't either—and being out of liquid comfort might hasten his return to civilization.

He turned his back on the campsite with only a twinge of nervousness. Harvey might have been in the mood for a fight, but he was almost in worse condition than McCormick. Still, Mark felt just a little easier when he'd put a little more space between himself and the man. He was on the path again. He supposed he could turn back, but that would be apparent to Harvey. It might even look like he'd come up here hunting for him, which seemed like something that wouldn't help matters much.

The only alternative was to soldier on, even though both his enthusiasm and his ambition had vanished. The path was wending uphill, to boot. He went back to plodding, his injured leg developing a constant, steady ache and a more pronounced limp.

Still, he made it to the top of the next rise, well away from where he'd parted ways with Harvey. This was a rocky promontory, a scenic overlook onto the lake which lay shining below him. He saw the shoreline tucking in back to the south of where he stood. Up to the north were two figures, a short way out into the water. They were too far off to be absolutely certain at first sight, but he watched for a moment and decided the closer one was almost certainly Hardcastle—the cast, the way he stood—it was obvious.

He'd hooked something. Mark couldn't see the line, not even the bend of the rod, but the man's stance had changed. He must have shouted something to Frank. Nothing could be heard at this distance but Harper had turned, and was approaching round from the side, with the net unhooked from his belt.

It had to be a big one. Hardcastle wasn't one to let them fight unnecessarily, but his time he was playing it out with all due caution. Mark knew without being told that this was the first one he'd hauled in that morning. He nearly had it netted. He could see the glisten, the flash of its side, even from this height. It was a fish with some heft to it from the way Frank held the net, scooping it up.

Then both men were wading for shore—Frank with the catch and the judge toting the two rods. Mark let out the breath he'd been unconsciously holding and smiled, though he swore up and down that pulling fish out of the water was just a step or two above watching grass grow. He'd let Hardcastle have bragging rights at dinner tonight. He'd listen to the whole story—it'd be something to talk about.

He felt his smile slip just a little. There was a remote possibility that having snagged such a big one, the judge might want to hustle it directly back into Etta's skilled hands. He couldn't see the two men anymore, gone in onto shore and under the treeline.

He turned and stumped back down the path. It was slightly easier, but every bit as risky in this direction. Now the main peril was going too fast, spurred on by his wish not to be the last one home. He passed Harvey's outpost with barely a glance to the side, only pausing long enough to register that the smoke was gone. He wondered if maybe his little lecture on morality hadn't been more effective than he'd given it credit for.

He did slow down to recross the creek, even tucking his hand back in. It would be sheer stupidity to smash it up now. On the lodge side of the trail the levelness now worked against him, and the last mile seemed longer by far than it had on the trip out. He slowed, imperceptibly at first. Toward the end it was something little better than a crawl, though he was still on his feet.

When he finally made it back to the clearing, the sun was past its zenith. He paused at the end of the path and looked around.

Or course it wasn't entirely possible to tell from that far off, but the place looked quiet. No one out on the back porch. The door to the kitchen was propped open slightly, as though Etta might be in the throes of some serious baking.

He approached with caution, while trying to look casual about it. He had a suspicion that he looked a little wrung out. He certainly _felt_ that way. If he knew for certain that Hardcastle was still down by the lake, he'd sneak in via the lobby, and try to get up to the room unseen by anyone, but if the judge was back, it would be better by far to come in through the kitchen and catch his breath for a while before he ventured upstairs.

He flipped a mental coin and the kitchen won. Etta would only cluck. Hardcase would read him the riot act.

He loosened his death grip on the walking stick, trying to make it appear to be merely a convenience. He got as far as the bottom of the stoop by the kitchen door, and was considering how best to tackle that, when the woman herself appeared in the doorway.

She was the image of domesticity with flour on her hands, but she appeared concerned—Mark had hoped he didn't look bad enough to warrant _that_ worried an expression. For a moment she stood there, blocking the way. It didn't matter, he was fairly sure he wasn't going to make it up that last couple of steps without assistance.

Then she threw her hands up in a gesture of exasperation and looked over her shoulder, back into the room. "Harvey, you'd better get over here and lend him a hand."

She stepped off to the side, wiping her hands on her apron. The man himself took her place, looking remarkably at home for a prodigal. He seemed steady on his feet—either the two hours of sobering had helped some, or he was a professional drinker—but, either way, McCormick was in no condition to be fussy about help.

Harvey stepped down, opposite the stick side, and provided some much-needed lift. The stick was parked just inside the door, and the escort continued all the way to a chair, already pulled out from the table. It was across from where Harvey had been sitting. He'd apparently been back long enough to have finished his lunch, and was now helping to sort cranberries. The kitchen smelled enticingly productive, with two loaves of bread on the sideboard and a pecan pie cooling on the sill.

Mark smiled. "Pecan—that's the judge's favorite."

Etta tapped the side of her nose with a wink "I know—it's part of the mystique. I have some banana pudding in the fridge, too."

This time it was a grin. "Okay, how'd you know _that_?"

"Inquiries were made," Etta said archly. "That nice Mr. Harper is very observant."

Mark noticed a grim expression had crossed Harvey's face, just as quickly evened out to something blander, or maybe sullen. He ignored it.

"The others back yet?" he asked casually.

"No," Etta said. "You went past the creek," she added.

Mark suspected Harv hadn't been the one who'd ratted on him, but Etta was casting looks at both of them that suggested she was putting two and two together.

McCormick decided to come clean. "That's a very nice view of the lake from up there. I think they're bringing home at least an eight-pounder."

That did it. Apparently advanced intelligence was worth risking a fall for. The woman looked suddenly more animated.

"Eight? You could tell from way up there?"

"Eight at least, maybe ten."

"Oh, _excellent_. I've got something special I do with the bigger ones—you know they may be pretty, but they need some special attention."

She paused and then frowned again. "You ought to eat something and maybe have a little lie-down."

"Okay," Mark laughed, "if there's banana pudding with lunch, I'll go take my nap like a good boy afterwards."

00000

It was Harper who'd suggested that one fish that large was probably enough for the day. Pretty clearly they weren't going to improve on it size-wise.

"But the bigger ones aren't always the best eating," Hardcastle said. "Besides, you haven't had any luck yet."

"Two hours is plenty long to see how your luck is running." Frank grinned, hefting the creel. "If I quit now it's not so embarrassing."

Milt gave that a considering nod and a grin of his own, which rapidly flattened out to something a little worried.

"Don't tell me it's gotten to the point where you can't spend the afternoon sitting on a porch with him, shooting the breeze," Frank chided. "I'll bet Etta's got some more beers where those came from. We'll get Mark started on his old girlfriends."

Milt gave that something approaching a grunt—but the worried look hadn't quite dissipated. "I dunno," he said. "It's kinda different now."

Frank didn't have to ask when 'now' had begun. That'd be three and a half weeks ago, or maybe a few days after, when Mark had finally been with it enough again to have a coherent conversation. He frowned.

"Hey, his parole's up pretty soon, isn't it?" He didn't know why the thought hadn't occurred to him earlier. Somehow Milt's other arrangement had superseded that—Frank didn't really think about the State of California's angle on it much anymore.

He'd taken a few more steps before he realized Milt hadn't answered, and then two steps further before he realized the man had fallen behind. He stopped, and turned back to face the older man.

"Another month and a half," Milt muttered.

"You two have talked about that, haven't you?" Frank asked.

The sudden, rather firm silence, spoke for itself.

Frank shifted the shoulder strap of the creel on his shoulder and reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose. Then he shook his head. "Not a word? Not _one_ word? You thinking maybe he won't notice if it doesn't come up in conversation?"

"No, of course not—nothing like that."

"Well," Frank said, trying to keep the exasperation out of his voice, "at least I know where he gets it from."

Hardcastle jerked his chin up and locked eyes with him—a sudden, questioning look. "Gets what from?"

Frank didn't answer that one. He turned away again, giving his head one last, slow shake. "You two need to work this out before it makes you both crazy." He frowned momentarily. "Not that there'd be any way to tell the difference."

"Nothing to work out," Milt said sullenly. "He's probably already got things figured. He'll let me know when he's ready."

"Ready for what?" Frank looked over his shoulder, fairly certain the answer wouldn't be in words.

He was right. Hardcastle made a vague one-handed gesture.

"That's it, huh?" the lieutenant said. "You think maybe it'd make a difference if you _asked_ him to stay?"

The judge stopped in his tracks again. This time is was with a stiff look of disapproval.

"Yeah," he finally said, "he might stay, but that wouldn't be very fair—to lean on him like that. Either I think he's rehabilitated or I don't. And I happen to think he is. So what the hell would I being doing if I asked him to stick around? He needs to get on with his life . . . and I guess so do I."

Frank had stopped, too, but this time didn't turn around. He thought his expression might give him away, that he was wrestling with a promise he'd made to Mark. He thought if he had the kid here right now he might have even gotten him to agree that all this secrecy about law school was a mistake, but Mark wasn't here, and his trust hadn't come easy.

"I just think you guys should talk," he said with finality. "It might help."

00000

He'd eaten lunch with more appetite than he'd had in a while—a double helping of the banana pudding even. Now that he'd arrived at the 'lie-down' part of the schedule, he was beginning to think that maybe the second serving of dessert had been a mistake.

It was a mild, somewhat nebulous feeling at first, nothing alarming. Alarming didn't come for another fifteen minutes or so, but when it did arrive it was abrupt, with barely enough time to reach for the brass waste basket alongside the nightstand. He wondered, very briefly, if Clarence Darrow had ever tossed any rough drafts of famous opening statements into this very same receptacle.

He didn't have time to ponder that further before another wave of nausea struck and all other thoughts stepped aside. This time there was pain, sharp and even more intense than his cloudy recollection of the night he'd been shot. It was more like what he'd experienced when he'd first woken up in the hospital. He didn't try to make it back up onto the bed—the floor seemed like the only reasonable proposition, with his back against the wall and the possibly historic bucket between his knees.

He wasn't sure for how long that had gone on before he heard muffled voices out on the landing and the door to the suite opening. Voices again, in the sitting area but not any louder, obviously they'd heard from Etta that he was napping. He supposed he might pull this off if he kept quiet until they wandered back downstairs again.

But that wasn't to be. It was back for another round and this time the pain that accompanied it was violent enough that he was left gasping afterwards, with barely enough strength to pull his face out of Mr. Darrow's circular file.

He was only peripherally aware of the bedroom door opening and Hardcastle's momentarily perplexed, 'What the hell—?' He didn't feel up to explaining, except for a half-hearted, 'Just started a few minutes ago. Musta been—'

What it must have been was lost in yet another upheaval, though this time there wasn't much left to come out. Still, the effort and the pain were every bit as intense. He felt too sick to be embarrassed, one arm now draped across the rim of the brass bucket and his forehead resting on that.

He heard the judge say something to Frank and then, closer at hand, "Come on now, let's have that." He was being propped up. The bucket was pried loose and removed—he hoped they wouldn't regret that—and the two of them were levering him up and into the bed. Mark wondered if that wasn't a case of misguided priorities, but he really did feel a little better once he was lying down flat. He thought as long as he kept his eyes shut, and kept swallowing—but, no, it was on the way again.

"Bucket," he said hoarsely.

"Here." It was Hardcastle and he didn't waste any words on annoying reassurances.

By the time that bout was finished he was shaking, but the knifelike pain in his gut was slowly subsiding to a dull knot. He kept his eyes closed. He let the judge wipe his face with something wet—a washcloth.

"Thanks," he said, and having had that much success, and a few minutes in which there was no return of the nausea, he added, "Can I have some water?" This time he opened his eyes just a crack. Hardcastle was looking down at him with concern.

"I dunno if that's such a hot idea. Probably should wait till the doctor sees you."

Mark frowned in momentary confusion—his next appointment being in two more weeks. Then he realized Hardcastle was talking local doctors, possibly even an ambulance and the nearest hospital.

"Just something I ate," he said suddenly, and then, thinking that one through and recognizing the unlikelihood of it, amended it to, "A bug—maybe coming down with something."

"Yeah," the judge said, and for the first time, Mark heard the tense tone under it all. "And in your condition you can't afford to take any chances with a thing like that. The stitches aren't even all the way healed. You could have a rupture or something."

Given the severity of the pain that had followed the retching, Mark wasn't much inclined to disagree. On the other hand, the pain had eased off almost as soon as the vomiting had stopped, and he figured that meant no permanent damage.

"I think I'm better."

Dubious didn't begin to describe Hardcastle's expression. It looked like it was going to be a hard sell and Mark wasn't sure he had that much persuasion left in him.

"Look," he said quietly, trying to keep his breathing slow and even, "I don't want to go anywhere right now—not even flat on my back in an ambulance. Give me a few minutes here, let's see how it goes. If I start puking again you can call whoever you like—I promise I'll go peaceably. Just for now lemme rest, okay?" He closed his eyes again without waiting for a reply. He thought that might leave less room for argument.

He heard Hardcastle let out a breath, but no more protests. More voices out in the sitting room, this time Della was involved. He thought he might have dozed off but it was hard to say. When he opened his eyes the light seemed different. The brass bucket was back in its appointed spot, and there was a plastic basin on the nightstand.

Hardcastle, however, looked as though he hadn't moved at all.

"What time is it?" Mark asked.

"Almost four," the judge answered without looking down at his wrist. Mark suspected there'd been a certain amount of regular watch-checking.

"See, I'm better."

The judge didn't say anything to that, merely reaching over behind where the basin sat, fetching out a glass with a straw in it. Mark looked at it cautiously, despite the lingering taste in his mouth—he thought he might never look at bananas the same way again. He finally reached for it.

"You just handle the straw end," Hardcastle said, getting that within reach.

Mark did as he was told, and found that even lifting his head off the pillow required an unexpected amount of effort. He took a couple of tentative sips and then decided to quit while he was ahead. The judge looked dissatisfied but before he had a chance to grade the performance, Frank was in the doorway.

"You're awake, huh? Etta's in a tizzy."

"It wasn't _her_ fault. Besides, you guys didn't get sick."

He watched one of Hardcastle's eyebrows go up, but the man said absolutely nothing—which was somehow more aggravating than any comment he might have made.

"I'm not made out of glass, dammit," Mark added heatedly. The other man still didn't seem to have anything to say. McCormick frowned at the continuing silence. He finally let his head drop back onto the pillow. He stared up at the ceiling, trying to put the best spin on things. "Okay, maybe it _was_ something I ate."

"Anyway," Frank shrugged, "the potato salad and the banana pudding are history. Smells like a swimming pool down there. Everything's getting scrubbed down with bleach."

"Well, I hope she didn't toss the fish," Mark said, still considering he ceiling.

There was a moment more of silence before Hardcastle said, "How'd you know about that?"

Mark swallowed. He'd assumed Etta or Della had filled them in on the morning's activities.

"Oh," he lifted one arm in what was supposed to have been an airy, off-handed gesture—the limb was unusually heavy and uncooperative, and plopped back down onto the mattress with no finesse, "went for a little walk." That had come out flat, too. "Saw you from up there. Watched you land it."

He kept his gaze averted to the ceiling until the continuing silence finally made him sneak a glance to the side. Hardcastle was sitting, lips slightly narrowed, obviously thinking through the logistics of that observation post.

"And I don't think a walk in the woods made me sick," Mark added preemptively.

The judge's fairly relaxed 'nah' came as a complete surprise. Even Frank looked startled.

"Might've been a couple miles," McCormick said, hesitantly warming to the confession.

"How'd'ja feel when you got back?"

"Tired," he admitted. "And hungry."

"Not sick, though?"

"_No_. I was fine until after I ate. Maybe twenty minutes after."

"Kinda fast for a bug. No fever. Just throwing up. How do you feel now?"

"Better. _Really_ . . . just tired."

Hardcastle held out the glass again, and Mark dealt with the straw end. He was more ambitious this time.

"You need anything else right now?"

Mark shook his head.

"Okay," the judge said, putting the glass down in easy reach but not pushing the basin too far back, "you sleep a little more." He stood up slowly, as though he was tired, too, or maybe he'd just been sitting too long.

00000

He slept again. This time he was sure of it, because when he opened his eyes, the room was deep in shadows—it was just past dusk outside. Someone had refilled the glass. There was enough light coming through the half-open door to the sitting room. For a moment he wondered what had woken him, then he heard it—the door to the suite being closed gently. He couldn't tell for a moment if it was someone coming or leaving, but then there was a shadowy figure in the doorway carrying a tray.

"Etta?" he said rustily.

"Shall I turn the light on?"

He nodded, then squinted as she flipped the switch.

"Sorry about all the excitement," he said.

This might not have been quite the right thing to say. She looked anxious, very close to tears. She propped the tray temporarily on one corner of the nightstand, tucked the empty basin under one arm, then slid the tray and its contents into place. It was all done with nervous efficiency and no eye contact.

"Etta, don't worry. I'm fine, really." He looked at the bowel with some actual interest. It was steaming and smelled like chicken soup. "How'd the fish turn out?"

"Oh," she flustered, "would you rather have had something solid? I wasn't sure."

"No, this is fine. Better to start slow, I think." He propped himself up some, only to find her leaning over, fussing with the pillows, trying to lend a hand.

"Okay, stop," he held out a hand, pleased to note that everything was noticeably steadier now. "This is not your fault. It's was me probably. That's kinda what I figure . . . only don't tell Hardcastle that."

She dropped into the chair that the judge had occupied earlier. She finally met his eyes, but looked stricken. It appeared as if she was wrestling with something, and it must've been a very near-run decision, because her mouth opened several times before anything came out.

"But you see, it _is_ my fault," she finally said.

"Well," Mark added hastily, "even if it was a bad egg, it's not exactly the end of the world. It's not like I'm going to report you to the health department or something."

She surprised him with a sharp, harsh laugh, over and past as quickly as it had some out. "Bad egg." She smoothed her apron, then reached up and daubed her eyes. "Hah." She finally leaned forward, reaching for the bowl and the spoon.

"I can manage," Mark said, boosting himself up and waiting for her to hand them over.

"I should probably tell you, before you tuck into it."

"Tell me what?"

"It's my fault, _really_. I should have realized he was up to something, showing up like that and then hanging around the kitchen."

Mark gave her a look of puzzled confusion.

"He heard me talking—I was making the banana pudding. I must have said I'd gotten the idea from Mr. Harper." She dropped her chin. "You've got to understand, he's never done anything like that before."

"Like what?" Mark asked suspiciously.

"I was in the kitchen this afternoon, after you took sick. I was crying. I was so upset. I was throwing out things. He saw how worried I was and he confessed." She was looking down at her hands, now twisting themselves into the fabric of her apron.

"_Ipecac_," she half-whispered. "He'd gotten it from the medicine cabinet earlier. He'd put it into the pudding while I wasn't looking."

"Why the hell would he do that?" McCormick asked, thinking he might already have a rough idea. "He wanted to hurt _Frank_?"

"Not _hurt_ him," Etta looked up, even more alarmed. "Only make him feel sick . . . just something like that, I'm certain."

"So he'd maybe call the trip off? Go home early?"

The woman nodded. "Just that. He was afraid of him. He didn't really want anyone to get hurt."

Mark sighed, the bowl rested in his lap. He'd lost what little appetite he'd gotten back.

"_Why_?" he finally said, and then, when there was no immediate answer, he added firmly, "You owe me that much."

All her earlier smoothing attempts on the apron were for naught; it was tightly bunched in her hands. She let the story out in bits—anxious bursts interspersed with nervous silences. When she was done she pinned him with a questioning gaze, as though she was waiting for judgment to be passed.

Mark had put the soup aside. She coaxed it back in front of him. He stared down at it, then took a spoonful mechanically, still thinking it all over.

"It's been a long time," he finally said. He looked around himself, at the interior of the room, and then back at Etta's still worried face. "The judge needs to know. He understands stuff like this."

"And Lieutenant Harper?"

Mark paused on that one, but finally said, "Yeah, Frank, too." He cast a worried glance at her. "Where are they?"

"Downstairs, with Della. I planked the judge's trout and made a wild rice casserole." She looked briefly over her shoulder then back at him. "I sent Harvey out—Della knows I'm angry with him; he's to stay out. She doesn't know why."

"Will he leave?"

Etta sighed sadly. "I don't know where he'd go."

00000

The trout lay before them on its pine-board platter, elegant simplicity.

Frank watched Milt pick at his food, his thoughts obviously elsewhere. Della had been in and out. All the warm, casually friendly atmosphere had been replaced by anxious tension.

Harper supposed their reputations were at stake—that it was, in the heart of it, a business, and one which relied on word of mouth. Still, it all seemed a little dramatic. Mark had looked better the last time he'd stuck his head in the room upstairs. Sleeping—washed out, maybe—but even Milt hadn't insisted on carrying out the threat of a visit to the doctor, so McCormick had to be on the mend.

"She did a terrific job with the fish, huh?" Frank said lightly.

Milt dragged his gaze up, then shot a sharp glance toward the kitchen, then back at Frank. "Yeah. She's a very good cook. The kitchen's immaculate."

It hadn't been exactly standard praise. It seemed more directed than that, but the judge said nothing further. Then Della was back, fussing over them, offering coffee but obviously also distracted.

Frank looked up at her, smiling. "Tell you mom she really outdid herself."

"Oh," Della forced a small smile in return, "she's upstairs. She made some soup for Mark."

There was no missing the deeper frown on Hardcastle's face. Della didn't, at any rate; her own expression of forced cheerfulness fled.

"He is doing better?" she said anxiously. "I mean, it was nothing serious."

"It could've been," Hardcastle said tersely, and then, after a pause and more to himself then her, "He acts like it's all a big nothing. Like he doesn't know how serious it all is . . ."

Della looked confused. It even took Frank a moment to realize that the man was talking about earlier events—the bigger picture.

But Della seemed to have caught on, too, though she still perhaps interpreting it as an accusation. "It really is just like a garden path. We told him not to go past the creek."

Hardcastle waved that all away. "Not your fault. He's stubborn—I think that's what kept him alive." He smiled slightly. "Don't worry. He's doing better. The soup'll probably fix him right up."

But his smile didn't hold. He had his napkin out of his lap and was rising. "The fish was fine." Never mind that his plate looked hardly touched, that this was barefaced minimum politeness. "I think maybe I'll head up there, see how things are going." And just as abruptly, he departed.

Frank smiled at Della, and rose hastily to follow, catching up with Milt in the lobby. There was no cheery fire there tonight. The place had an air of off-season desertion which might easily be the ghost of things to come. Milt mounted the stairs, with Frank a dozen steps behind him. He heard the man grunt a 'good evening' and lifted his head to see Etta standing on the landing at the top, holding a tray and stepping aside to let them pass.

She looked, if that was possible, even tenser than her daughter. There were no additional vague social niceties. He gave her one tight nod and said, "He okay?"

"Better," she replied quietly. She lifted the tray just slightly. "He finished most of the soup."

The judge moved by, saying nothing else. Frank edged past her with the same quick smile he'd managed for Della. The woman's expression stayed slightly grim, almost resolved. Hardcastle was already to the door of the suite, and she turned and hurried down the stairs.

Frank shook his head, and followed the older man into the sitting room. There was only the one corner lamp on. By that, and the modest light from the fire in the fireplace, he could see that Mark occupied one of the chairs. He didn't look particularly pale—firelight was forgiving that way—and he glanced up when the other two men entered.

"How you doing?" the judge asked, standing, arms crossed, giving the younger man a hard study.

"Better," Mark replied, without much enthusiasm. "Etta made some soup. It's staying put."

Milt settled into one of the other chairs, adjusting it so that it did not face Mark's straight on. Frank closed the door to the upstairs hallway and considered taking the third chair. There was something in Mark's expression that suggested he needed to talk, and something else, maybe a little closed, that made Frank thing he ought to keep right on walking to the bedroom.

This might be it. The announcement was finally at hand, and maybe Mark had come to realize that having Frank around was really more of a liability than an asset. After all, he could hardly stand there and pretend he hadn't heard a word of it before.

Harper took his unspoken dismissal with good humor. "Long day, I think I might just go ahead and hit the sack. See you in the morning." He sauntered off to the bedroom, glad to think the other two would finally get the air cleared between them.

00000

Mark sat quietly, waiting until he'd heard the click of the bedroom door shutting, and then still saying nothing more for a few moments. The truth was, he didn't know exactly how to begin.

"I need to talk to you," he said, straightforwardly enough. Then he backslid slightly. "It a hypothetical."

Hardcastle had had one eyebrow already perched up in disbelief. Now that dropped, followed by a long, slow, sigh.

"A'hypothetical' huh?" he said grudgingly. "Is that the only way I'm gonna get the straight dope about what's going on?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I've never seen a food poisoning—or a flu bug for that matter—quite like what happened to you." There'd been a slight emphasis on the 'what happened' part of that, as if Hardcastle was no longer entertaining the notion of acts of nature.

"It wasn't anything serious, really."

"Maybe you should let me decide that . . . 'hypothetically', I mean," the judge said dryly.

Mark cast one look over at the closed door to the bedroom, then he dropped his voice just slightly. "Okay," he drew a breath, "first off, what's the statute of limitations on bank robbery?"

The judge sat back looking startled, then a little puzzled. "Well, that's a pretty big hypothetical," he said. "Depends on a lot of stuff. State bank?—state court, California—just a robbery? Nobody got hurt? If things got ugly—six years. If somebody died—"

"No, not a _murder_—a bank robbery," Mark interrupted.

"Three years, then. Of course the clock stops if the prosecution has commenced and then the defendant flees the state."

"No, he fled all right, but he hadn't been charged yet. And it was almost twenty years ago."

"Sorry then, kiddo," Hardcastle frowned, "looks like that one is kinda stale. But, hey, if the guy committed something a little fresher. A battery maybe—"

"No, nothing like that," Mark said hastily.

Hardcastle raised his face. McCormick felt the frown now directed at him. "You do know how we define battery, don'tcha?"

"Any willful and unlawful use of force or violence upon the person of another," McCormick intoned almost absentmindedly.

He'd sunk a little deeper into thought before he noticed that a moment of silence had passed. He looked up, suddenly aware that Hardcastle was giving him a more penetrating stare.

"Jailhouse lawyer," Mark added, shrugging carelessly. "No battery in this case. Not _really_. Hell, it was ipecac. It's what they use when someone _has_ been poisoned. It's like, an antidote or something, right?"

"It was nothing, huh?" Hardcastle's glower hadn't softened any. "Didn't look that way to me."

McCormick wisely passed on giving another shrug. "Okay, yeah, but I wasn't even the one who was supposed to have gotten it." He went silent, just jerking his chin toward the closed bedroom door. Then he said, quieter still, "Has Frank said anything about anyone looking familiar around here?"

The judge shook his head.

"'Course not," Mark shook his head again. "It was twenty years ago. He panicked for no reason at all."

"The hypothetical bank robber who tried to poison you?" Hardcastle asked. There was a sharp edge to his tone.

"Ipecac," Mark repeated firmly. "It's that stuff they give to _kids_."

"What the heck was he trying to accomplish? Scare us off or something?"

"Not even that, I think. More like just wanting us to not feel like eating anymore fish." Mark frowned lightly. "It worked for me."

"Get us to pack our bags and depart early? Maybe scratch this place off our list for future visits?"

McCormick nodded.

"So who all was in on the plan?"

"Just him."

"You sure?"

Another nod. "Yeah. Etta's very upset and Della doesn't know even now." All attempts at the anonymous hypothetical had fallen by the wayside.

"It's still battery," the judge insisted, "no matter what you say. And if Frank was the intended victim, then it was assault against a police officer—least-wise it would be in California. I'd have to take a look at the Oregon Code."

"The banana pudding is gone," Mark said practically. "And the victim isn't sure he remembers eating any of it."

He saw Hardcastle's color rising. There was a pause, like the moment where a storm gathers and the air briefly stills.

Then the judge began speaking again, low but very vehement. "Jailhouse lawyer is right. Still looking for an angle after all this time."

Mark heard the bitterness; he felt it, almost like a blow. There wasn't anything he could say, not without adding even more damning facts to a case that was still tenuously hypothetical.

It didn't matter. Hardcastle had paused again. This time Mark could see the man making the silent connections, almost faster than McCormick could have explained it out loud.

"Twenty years ago, huh?" the older man finally huffed. "And he comes up here, big wad of cash, and invests in some real estate."

"It wasn't all _that_ big a wad," Mark protested. "This place was falling apart. No one else wanted it and it probably would have been torn down if Etta and her husband hadn't stepped in. Harvey's her brother. He offered them the down payment. They took it. They didn't know."

"They didn't ask too many questions, I'll bet."

"It was money, and they needed it." Mark looked at him, hoping for a glimmering of understanding. He didn't see much. He sighed. "I dunno. You're not easy to live up to, Hardcase. Sometimes people make mistakes. Okay? Etta did, maybe even her husband did. But Della was only about six years old. And she and her mom have put their sweat and their souls into this place. Yeah, it's worth something now, but it's all they have."

"So you think we should just back away from this all? Let the past be the past?"

Mark saw a little hope in the 'we' part—at least there was still a sense that the matter might be open to discussion. He started to nod, but Hardcastle had barreled ahead.

"Sometimes I think you haven't learned a damn thing—and you never will, either." His voice was still low, but somehow all the more potent because of that. "A crime was committed—too late on that one, but now the guy makes another mistake, that's what they do. That's when you can—"

"_Mistakes_," Mark said. "That's what people do. They make mistakes. They do stupid things. Sometimes they need to be punished, but not if the punishment will destroy more than it fixes. What's the sense of _that_?"

"He robbed a bank," Hardcastle said stubbornly.

"You're hopeless." Mark got to his feet. "You can't be reasoned with." He didn't have the energy left to fight. He didn't even have the energy left to stalk off and slam the door. He simply turned his back and walked away.

He made it as far as his room before he ran out of steam and dropped onto the bed. He was breathing hard, though he wasn't sure if it was anger or exhaustion. That lasted a few minutes longer. He thought he ought to lie down. He was tired; it had been a long day, but he thought he'd never been to a point further than this from being able to rest, let along sleep.

It had been his mistake, walking away like that. Have it out, settle it—once and for all, though he wasn't sure exactly which thing he needed to get settled right now. He got up again, holding on to the foot board for a moment until he felt steadier, more able to deal with it all. He took a breath and parted with the handhold, heading for the door and opening it again.

And Hardcastle was gone.

He saw the bedroom door opposite just as it clicked shut. Mark stood there in the middle of the anticlimax, blinking a couple of times, feeling like he'd missed his cue. He supposed he might cross the room, a matter of a few feet, and knock, but somehow he couldn't. It would be in some way an apology, and he wasn't ready to do that.

He sat back down where he'd been, watching the fire again. He'd been perfectly all right before he'd met Hardcastle, and he'd be perfectly all right again—someday, eventually. He supposed he might even go to law school, like he'd planned.

But, no, he didn't think there was much point to that, not if it meant becoming an intransigent, rule-bound, guardian of the public weal who didn't have the slightest bit of moral flexibility. He scowled at the embers but his scowl gradually failed him. His anger slowly drained out, along with his certainty.

He shifted his eyes to the other door, quick glances. He suspected the guy on the other side wasn't asleep either, and he _knew_ he wasn't intransigent. In fact, he suspected all that moral inflexibility was really more the consequences of a raw nerve being struck—that even if the statute of limitations hadn't already expired, it would have been the _battery_, not the robbery, that the judge would have most wanted to see prosecuted.

He dropped his head back onto the top edge of the chair, studying the undulating light and shadows reflected on the ceiling. He sighed and closed his eyes. He decided he'd figure it out in the morning.

00000

Eventually he'd crawled back into bed. Eventually he'd fallen asleep. And way too soon after that it was morning. He awoke to the sound of a tap on his door. His memories of the day before returned in full and sudden completeness, as though they'd been lurking just below the surface.

"You up?" Hardcastle's familiar voice asked. He still had not opened the door.

"Uh-huh," Mark muttered, stumbling out of bed and reaching for the knob. It was a little after seven, by his watch, and there were just the beginnings of daylight. He opened the door and was face-to-face with the man—him already dressed, though not looking particularly well-rested. Mark noticed, absently, that the uniform of the day was fishing garb. Apparently there'd been no unilateral decision during the night to decamp back to LA.

Mark realized he ought to say something, at least to signify that he was hitting on all cylinders. He scratched his head and commented, "Going fishing?" phrasing it as a neutral half-question.

"Yeah," Hardcastle said, with a slight edge of gruffness to it. But Mark knew that sometimes gruff translated to worried. It appeared to be the case this morning, for the next thing out of the judge's mouth was, "I think you oughta come along."

"Why?"

The older man made a face. "Well," he said, "you're the one who said we oughta not leave—we had to hang around here and act natural."

Mark stared at him. He realized he was doing it and tried to stop, but his eyes came right back to the man and his surprise must've been easy to read. He finally shook his head, as if that would clear his mind, and said. "Okay, _yeah_, you go fishing and all, but why _me_?"

He realized, even as he was asking the question, that he knew what the answer was. _He_ might trust Etta and Della—and even old Harvey, now that he must've realized that Frank wasn't on to him—but Hardcastle wasn't in the mood to be so forgiving. He was probably taxing the man's resources right now as it was, asking for anything more was folly.

"Okay, okay," he said wearily. "Gimme a sec."

"Take your time; Frank's not ready yet, either. I'm gonna go down and see about some breakfast.

Go and patrol the kitchen, most likely, Mark thought. Maybe interrogate the cook, as well. He hoped the man would be polite, though he knew Hardcastle was at his most dangerous when civil.

He watched him depart, then turned back into his room, taking out suitable layers for the cool morning air and the possibility of dampness. He pulled things on and then headed back into the sitting room to deal with shoes and socks.

Frank joined him a moment later; looking slightly better rested then Hardcastle had, but just as unsettled. He was stuffing a snubnose .38 into his waistband at the back. It wasn't his usual service piece—a 9mm, as McCormick recollected—this one must be for traveling. He supposed Frank might always bring a gun with his tackle when he headed down to a lake, but a .38 wouldn't do much to discourage bears. He suspected Hardcase and Harper had already conferred this morning.

"He talked to you, huh?" Mark asked, opening the conversation. It had been a mostly unnecessary remark, but it was going to be awkward if _nobody_ was on speaking terms with him this morning.

He got a nod from the lieutenant, and then an appraising look.

"I was wondering," Frank finally said.

The pause that followed that was long enough that Mark was finally provoked.

"Wondering _what_?" he asked, a little sharply.

"You weren't planning to tell him you're starting law school, I mean, not now, not on this trip."

Mark stared at him trying to figure out where this segue had come from.

"No. Like I said—after I'm sure it's going okay . . . if it _does_ go okay," he added, feeling another slightly lurching drop on the descent into depression.

Frank looked puzzled. He shook his head. "Okay, then, why the hell did you want me along on this trip, if it wasn't to be your back-up when you made the big announcement?"

Mark said nothing for a moment. He finally sighed and then muttered, "Pennoyer v. Neff."

"Huh?"

"It's the first case on the syllabus for Civil Procedures. I've been trying to figure it out for the past two weeks."

"Two weeks ago you were still lying in the hospital doped up on pain meds."

"Well," Mark said glumly, "pretty much since right after that. Feels like longer than two weeks. A lot longer." He frowned. "See, in that case there were two guys—no, _three_—and some land. It was up here, in Oregon." He looked around for a moment and then huffed wearily, "Oregon has never been very good luck for me."

Frank cocked his head and then gave that a nod of agreement.

"Anyway, this guy Neff stiffed his lawyer with some bad paper and skipped out of state. The lawyer turned around and squeezed his share out of Neff by having his land sold—that's where Pennoyer came in. He got stuck holding the bag—he bought the farm, or ranch, or whatever it was. Then Neff shows up again and wants his land back, and the whole thing winds up in the Supreme Court.

"Judgment in rem," he muttered, "judgment in personam, a couple dozen references to precedent, it goes on like that for thirty-two pages—and that's just the Court's ruling. And you know," Mark shook his head slowly, "I keep thinking it all boils down to whether or not the sheriff took out a big enough ad in the newspaper. I dunno," he said sadly. "Maybe it's just me." He rested his chin on the heel of his hand.

"So," Frank said, still wearing a look of bemusement, "what's this got to do with me, and fishing? You didn't haul me up here to coach you on civil procedure, I hope."

Mark looked up at him sharply. "No, I'd never do that to you, Frank. I _like_ you . . . Nah, it's just that class starts on Monday—Monday night, and like I said, Pennoyer v. Neff is the first case on the schedule. If I miss that class, I'm dead, you know" He shook his head slowly. "And hell, if that one's just the _first _case, I'm dead anyway." It seemed to take him a little longer to return from that gloomy aside.

He finally looked up at Frank again, wearing the countenance of absolute honesty. "You understand, Frank, don'tcha? If it was just me and Hardcase up here, he might've decided to stay a whole 'nother week, especially if the fish were biting. I figured with you along, we'd have to get back by Monday. You had a good excuse."

Harper looked at him steadily. Mark backed down slightly from the unvarnished truth. "And I figured he'd have a lot more fun if he had someone to fish with." He waved his splinted wrist, hoping for the sympathy factor.

Frank looked convinced that he'd hear the right version the first time. His lips had gone a little thin. "But yah know you're being an idiot about this Penn-whatever thing.

Mark had been reaching over, fumbling with the other shoelace. "Thanks, Frank," he muttered without looking up.

"Not _that_ kind of idiot," Frank said sternly. "Just the usual kind. You weren't ever in the army, huh?"

Mark finally looked up at him. "No, you know I wasn't."

"Well," Frank sat back on the edge of the other chair, "it's like this. You show up for basic; they take you out on a field, and they have you drop and do more push-ups than you ever thought you'd have to do in a week. Then they yell at you some, and run you ragged for a while, then they yell at you some more. By the time the first day is over, you think you're never gonna survive another one like it." Frank shrugged. "It's just a way of getting your attention. It gets easier after that."

"Some guys wash out of basic."

"I don't think you'll be one of 'em," Frank grinned, then he added, after a hesitation, "Too bad you can't ask Milt about that case. He'd probably tell you it's all some kinda secret initiation rite. I'll bet you find out when you're done that it was overturned."

"It's the _Supreme_ Court, Frank."

"They don't ever get to change their minds?"

"That's not something judges are real good at," Mark said quietly. He stared into the now cold fireplace. "What the hell, none of it matters anymore, anyway."

"You mean on account of you two having it out last night? This 'Harvey Jones' thing?"

Mark nodded.

Frank scratched the side of his nose. "Well, I gotta say, it sounds almost as complicated as the one you're studying up on. I swear I didn't recognize him. Twenty year, hah, I'm surprised he recognized me. 'Course I haven't changed my name. Less hair, though." He reached up and patted his balding head. "But I don't know what the hell you're worrying about. You won that one."

It took a moment for that to register, and then Mark jerked his head up. "Waddaya mean?" he asked doubtfully.

"We're stayin'. We're fishin'; isn't that what you wanted?"

"It's okay?" McCormick frowned. "He's not going to do anything else?"

"Nope. He said you wanted to let it lie. So he's gonna let it lie."

"How come?"

Frank shrugged. "Maybe he finally decided you're right. Maybe he figured he owes you one."

Mark's frown deepened at this. "But he doesn't—"

"What the heck difference does it make? I didn't think the 'whys' mattered all that much to you, Mark. I always thought you wee more of an 'ends justifying the means' sort of guy. Anyway, it's settled."

Frank was standing again, arms crossed. Mark had his shoes on and tied. There was no putting it off any longer.

"I dunno," he said as he got up, even wearier than the night before, "maybe the reasons do matter."

00000

Etta had fed them all, and though no one could be said to have eaten heartily, the atmosphere was less oppressive than it had been the previous evening. Mark did his best to look hale and hearty.

Hardcastle was briefly solicitous—the matter of a coat, and hat. It was back down in the fifties, after a run of slightly warmer days. Mark put up with it, was almost grateful for it, though he wasn't sure it proved anything, except maybe that the man still felt he owed him something. By the time they stepped out—the judge and Frank burdened with gear, and Mark carrying the saddle blanket—the sun was up over the horizon.

They might've missed the best of the fishing for the morning, but Mark didn't think fish were really the point anymore. He noticed both men casting as many glances up into the woods behind the lake, as they did flies into the water, and both had foregone waders and were doing their fishing from the dry bank.

Mark had found himself a spot, up slightly in the windbreak of the trees. He'd sat on the blanket and then, when the rising sun provided more light than heat, began to wish he'd filched another. On one of his longer surveys of the surroundings, Hardcastle must've noticed. Before Mark could protest that everything was fine, or offer to hike back up to the lodge on his own, the judge was reeling in his line and obviously calling it quits.

Frank followed suit, without any discussion, and in short order, both men had their tackle boxes, and empty creels, and were headed up his way.

"Enough for one morning," Hardcastle said. "Kinda chilly today. Maybe better luck this afternoon." He looked down at McCormick and seemed to hesitate, almost imperceptibly, before he added, "You need a hand up?"

Mark shrugged, and didn't refuse the one which was proffered. "But there's no fish for lunch," he said.

"Etta said she's always got a back-up," the judge said. There was a half-smile.

Mark had a quick notion under the usual heading of Smart Remarks. It might have come out as 'anything but banana pudding,' but he squelched it. He wasn't that sure of the ground he was standing on.

But, all in all, thing felt pretty relaxed. He'd even smiled a couple of times himself. "And you should try the veranda," he said. "Rocking chairs, just the thing for the retired jurist."

There was a breeze off the lake, but it couldn't have accounted for the noticeable drop in temperature. That was Hardcastle, not smiling anymore, though not exactly angry, either. He turned abruptly for the path, leaving Mark to pick up the blanket and follow along, puzzled, in his wake.

00000

Hardcastle still wasn't exactly sure why Mark had made a point of having Frank along, but the guy had been damn useful. As a friend, as always, but also as a sounding board, which sometimes was harder than being a friend. Last night he'd just sat back and listened—listened to what McCormick wouldn't have—not saying much until the judge had run out of words. In the end, that had really been all he'd needed. Once the clutter of words was out, he could see what was left—what was more important, and maybe even why he was so damn angry.

And then he wasn't even all that angry anymore.

Still, even Frank's arbitration—and he was pretty sure the guy had been doing some arbitrating again this morning—couldn't get them past the original problem. Mark's casual remark about 'retired jurists' was evidence of that. Hardcastle figured he'd have to deal with that himself, but every time he approached it, the idea stopped him cold.

He plunged ahead, up the path to the lodge, not paying much heed to whether the others were following. The clearing was now before him. He could already see those damn rocking chairs on that damn veranda.

"Retired," he muttered under his breath, the single word sounding like a curse.

He trudged onto the lawn, the spot where the path stopped and the possibilities opened up. It didn't feel like possibilities, not when they all led to the same place. It was on one of those rocking chairs, the rough-hewn pine one furthest to the left, that his eyes were focused when he heard an all too familiar sound.

There's no such thing as a silencer. The noise a suppressed round makes is all the more frightening for its subtlety. He whirled and saw Frank dropping his gear and scrambling for his weapon—he must have heard it, too. Mark was still on his feet, halfway between them, looking startled but less certain about what was happening.

"Get _down_," Hardcastle shouted and the man dropped, almost as quickly as if he'd taken a hit—though it wasn't clear how much good that would do, out here in the clearing. "Where?" the judge shouted, this time it was directed at Frank, who had dropped back a bit, into the trees next to the path to the lake. He gestured off to his right. He must've seen something. His gun was trained in that direction as well.

A brief but eerie silence, and then Hardcastle saw it, too, movement at the edge of the woods to the north. A man stepped into the open, moving slowly.

"Hold it," Frank shouted.

The man halted. Hardcastle was squinting. He was certain it was Harvey, even from their short encounter on the first day.

"Hands out where I can see 'em," Frank added. It was thorough, but unnecessary. Harvey's hands were already out, a little ways from his sides, and obviously empty.

"He's over here." Harv gestured with his chin, not his hands. "In the woods. He had a gun."

Frank gestured with his weapon, having Harvey move further away from the trees while Harper edged in from the left. "Yeah," he shouted back over his shoulder to Hardcastle, "I see him. The guy's down."

"I threw the gun back there," Harvey said.

Hardcastle moved toward Mark first. He was already on his feet, taking an unsteady step and flexing the fingers of his splinted wrist as though they might have borne the brunt of the fall.

"You okay?" the judge asked.

McCormick nodded.

Hardcastle turned to Harvey. "Who's the guy?" he asked, his tone low and tense.

"I dunno." The man sounded sullenly defensive "I came up on him from behind. He was aiming at you guys."

Frank was over, past their reluctant hero to the man lying just inside the woods. "Hey," he said almost immediately, "it's Micky Delcamo. I know him—he's a P.I. He does a lot of divorce work for Hollywood types."

He looked down at Delcamo then up at Harvey. "Whaddya hit him with?"

Harvey pointed this time, but still slowly. They were all close enough to see it, lying behind the would-be assassin. It was a decent-size piece of wood but evidently not lethal. The man on the ground was starting to stir and he let out a moan, followed by some mumbled words that might have been cusses.

Frank patted him down, then reached, with an air of habituality, toward his back pocket for a pair of handcuffs. He frowned as he came up empty. "'Spose we ought to call the sheriff," he said, sounding a little irritated. He cast a pointed look at McCormick, who was still staring at the downed man and didn't acknowledge it.

Harper sighed, handed his gun over to Milt, and headed up to the lodge.

"Bet he's on retainer to Mr. Price," Mark finally said. The judge noticed him absentmindedly rubbing the spot where the stitches had recently been removed.

"Wouldn't surprise me," Hardcastle said with a sigh.

McCormick gave him a sharp look then said, "You didn't know anything about this, did you? That wasn't why we all of a sudden had to get out of state to eat some fish."

Hardcastle tried for an air of indignation. "What makes you think . . .?" He faltered. He'd never been all that good at lying, and he thought Mark was even worse at being lied to.

"Well," he conceded, "mighta had an inkling."

McCormick gave him a look of gradually rising disbelief. "An _inkling_?" he finally said in a tone of exasperation. It was apparent that he was restraining his comments only with great effort. "Exactly what constitutes one of those? Was this another heads up from Millie Denton or something?"

Hardcastle stood there. He took that one on the chin, mostly because he figured he deserved it. But it was Mark who backed down, looking almost immediately aware that he'd stumbled into somewhere he didn't want to go.

And Hardcastle didn't want to go there, either. He hurriedly filled in the nervous silence with an attempt at explanation.

"Just an idea, you know? Remember when you tried to get bail for me, that time I got framed for murder? You said the bail bondsman wouldn't touch it with a ten-foot pole? He said guys like me—guys who'd never been locked up—they're flight risks. Can't handle the idea of actually going to prison.

"See, that's what Price and Falcon are, too. More than that, they're used to getting their way. They don't get the idea that the rules apply to them, too. Price had already resorted to murder to tidy up loose ends. In for a penny, in for a pound. I figured he wouldn't quit just because he was locked up, awaiting trial."

He cast another glance down at the man on the ground. "I just didn't think there was any way he could figure out where we'd gone, let alone sic somebody on you up here. Hiring a PI, huh—must've offered him a heck of a bonus to finish the job all in one package." He shook his head. He found his frown taking in Harvey again.

The guy looked like a stray dog—run-down, worn-out, and wary. Probably a realistic view, Hardcastle thought, given the circumstances of his life. He was still not quite sure what he should say to the man.

"Thanks," Mark said quietly.

Harvey twitched in apparent surprise, then froze for a moment, as though he didn't believe what he'd heard. Hardcastle had been taken by surprise as well. He shot a quick look at the younger man. McCormick's expression was sincere, but not naïve.

Harvey had the good manners to look a bit shame-faced. He dropped his gaze to the ground and shuffled a moment before muttering, "Guess I owed ya."

Frank was coming down the steps from the back porch. He was just in time; the guy on the ground was trying to sit up. Hardcastle gave him a stern warning to stay put. Harper arrived.

"Had Della call the authorities," he said. There was a pair of cuffs in his hand and he stooped to apply them. "Had 'em in my bag," he added at Mark's questioning glance.

"You have the right to remain silent . . ." he began to intone.

Hardcastle smiled. There was no Miranda card in sight, but, then, Frank was by no means the arresting officer. This was just habit and habits are hard to break.

Harvey was easing back, looking like he wanted to be somewhere else. Hardcastle saw Etta out by the side of the lodge, looking alarmed. She must've been in the kitchen and heard some of the commotion.

"Go on," the judge shooed him. "Tell her you're all right. But stick around. You'll need to tell the authorities what happened." Harvey went gray under his weathered complexion. Hardcastle just shook his head. "Nah, you're just the handyman—you saw this guy sneaking around, armed, up to no good, you took him out. Simple as that."

Some of the man's color returned, though his expression was still grave. He nodded once, sharply, and retreated.

00000

There'd been sirens and, shortly after that, lots of sheriff's deputies who looked happy to have something out of the ordinary to occupy a shift. Hardcastle listened to Mark giving them his version of events, which included the phrase 'sitting duck', and a sentence or two extolling the courage of 'that guy, Harvey something—barely know him. Works here.'

It was nicely done, not overplayed, but enough to set a positive tone for Harvey's impending questioning. Hardcastle didn't have a lot to add, once he was done. They'd left it to Harper to explain the context of the attack.

And, far sooner than he'd expected, they were swept to the edge of the activity, standing off to the side with no role beyond that of spectators. He glanced sideward. Mark was flexing his fingers in an experimental, considering sort of way.

"You didn't fall on that damn wrist, didja?"

"Nah," the younger man replied without much hesitation. Then he glanced across the yard toward the lodge. "Think I might try out one of those rockers. Didn't get much sleep last night."

Hardcastle tried not to look surprised. The tired part was obvious but the admission was unexpected. He went for a subtly approving nod and then said, "Might try one myself. We got up kinda early."

McCormick did an equally good job at controlling his expression, not even a hint of a smile that might suggest he knew this was a concession. He just turned and started to stroll toward the veranda, with only the slightest hitch in his gait. The judge fell in alongside him and very pointedly offered no assistance.

They found two chairs with a good view of the proceedings. Etta came out only a moment later. The judge smiled at her reassuringly. "Shouldn't be any more trouble but I imagine they'll be there for a while, sorting everything out. Harvey's just filling them in on how he saved the day."

The woman smiled back, slightly less nervous, then looked at the small crowd of public servants now in possession of her grounds. "I'd better make some iced tea," she said decisively.

"I'm sure they'd appreciate that."

Then she bustled off, back into the lodge, leaving the two of them sitting again. Hardcastle gave his chair a tentative rock or two, trying to get the feel of it. Mark just sat. There wasn't all that much going on out there on the lawn, not enough to distract from the steady silence between them.

"You could sneak upstairs and take a nap," the judge finally said. "It's early yet, and it'll probably be a while before Etta gets around to making lunch."

"Nah," Mark replied, but he sounded unperturbed. "I'm tired, but I'm not _that_ tired." He frowned slightly, but he didn't seem to be taking offense at the suggestion. It was more an expression of self-assessment and it was followed, a moment later, by a hesitant question.

"What the heck happened last night?"

As soon as he'd gotten it out, it looked as if he'd regretted saying it—that maybe it would reignite the argument all over again. "Never mind," he hastily amended it. "Doesn't matter."

"You don't think so?" Hardcastle squinted, following Frank as he was shunted over to some newly-arrived higher-up. "We're gonna wind up owing that man a steak dinner."

"Not trout?" Mark said. It was fairly obvious that he was going for the distraction of teasing.

Hardcastle scowled half-heartedly and muttered, "I think I'm tired of trout," which brought them back to square one.

McCormick kept his eyes directed straight ahead, not appending any smart remarks to the judge's statement.

"All right," the judge finally admitted, with a weary sigh, "Maybe I was mad, but you were treating it all like it was some kind of fraternity prank."

"Huh?" This time the younger man did turn, facing him. "A 'prank'? _Hell_, no." He'd kept his voice down but his tone was very intense. "And if it'd been just Harvey, you could've nailed his hide to the wall for me. _Seriously_, it hurt that bad."

He looked back out at the lawn, at Harvey, pointing off into the trees as he was apparently asked a question. He sighed. "But I'm glad you didn't."

"Me too"

"But not if you did it because you figured you owed me one," Mark said flatly.

"Who said that?"

Mark shrugged. "Nobody. Just wondering."

"Yeah, well, it wasn't that."

"Then it was because you thought I was right?"

The judge sat there, skewered by logic. He finally shook his head slowly. "Maybe we were both right . . . and maybe when there's a shadow of a doubt, it's better not to convict."

Mark smiled, appearing more than satisfied with this much compromise.

"Tired of fish, huh?" he finally said. "So, can we go home tomorrow?"

Hardcastle rocked a couple more times. "I thought you liked it here."

"Yeah," Mark admitted, "it's okay," trying a tentative rock or two of his own and then pausing, "but it's a little dull."


End file.
